Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organisations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. The only exceptions to this are the characters Julie Bevan, Heather Gallacher, Alex Clark, and Rachel Gray who the author has been authorised to fictionalise and include within this volume. All behaviour, history, and character traits assigned to their fictional representations have been designed to serve the needs of the narrative and do not necessarily bear any resemblance to the real person.
The quotation ‘Clap in his walie nieve a blade …’ is from Robert Burns’s ‘Address to a Haggis’, published in 1786.
HarperCollinsPublishers,
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London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Stuart MacBride 2019
Stuart MacBride asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Cover images © seany.bo / Stockimo / Alamy Stock Photo
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books
SOURCE ISBN: 9780008208264
Ebook Edition © MAY 2019 ISBN: 9780008208288
Version: 2019-05-17
Dedication
For Grendel (again)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Without Whom
— I want you to pretend — that nothing bad is going to happen to you …
Chapter 1
— and then there was screaming —
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
— this is why we can’t have nice things —
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
— sins of the father, sins of the son —
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
— dead letters and abandoned mail —
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
— the blade, the reality-TV star, and the screaming —
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
— in case of emergency: break glass —
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
— broken promises, windows, and bones —
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
— one year later —
Chapter 49
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By Stuart MacBride
About the Publisher
Without Whom
As always I’ve received a lot of help from a lot of people while I was writing this book, so I’d like to take this opportunity to thank: Sergeant Bruce Crawford, star of Skye and screen, who answers far more daft questions than anyone should ever have to, as do Professor Dave Barclay and Professor James Grieve; Sarah Hodgson, Jane Johnson, Julia Wisdom, Jaime Frost (who enables my sushi addiction), Anna Derkacz, Isabel Coburn, Alice Gomer, Charlie Redmayne, Roger Cazalet, Kate Elton, Hannah O’Brien, Sarah Shea, Abbie Salter, Damon Greeney, Finn Cotton, Anne O’Brien, Marie Goldie, the DC Bishopbriggs Naughty Monkey Patrol, and everyone at HarperCollins, for all things publishy; Phil Patterson and the team at Marjacq Scripts, for keeping my numerous cats in cat food; and Allan Guthrie for being an excellent pre-reader.
Like all writers I also owe a huge debt of thanks to all the librarians and booksellers out there who put books in people’s hands and enthuse at them till they go away and read them. Then there’s you, the person reading this book! In a world that seems hell-bent on dumbing down, you’re a magnificent sexy beast of a thing and none of us would be here without you.
I’ve saved the best for last – as always – Fiona and Grendel (with honourable mentions to Onion and Beetroot who didn’t really help, but haven’t interfered too much).
— I want you to pretend —
that nothing bad is going to happen to you …
1
The study cupped itself around him like a hand around a match, guarding the flame until it can ignite the fuse. A dark room, filled with the sounds of Led Zeppelin, lit by a single Anglepoise lamp and the three huge monitors that hung above his ancient wooden desk. Awaiting his next words. Hungry.
Nicholas reached out with two liver-spotted forefingers and fed them: ‘this is what any sensible person can easily diagnose as “Referendum Dementia”.’ He sat back and smiled through the fug of cigarette smoke. Referendum Dementia. Yes, he could work with that. Expand the metaphor to something a bit more—
A curl of ash tumbled down the front of his old Rolling Stones T-shirt and blood-red hoodie.
‘God damn it …’ Brushing at it just smeared the powdery grey deeper into the fabric.
Abigail really wouldn’t approve of that. Bad enough going around dressed like a stroppy teenager, never mind a tramp.
An electronic ding broke through ‘Communication Breakdown’ as a new tweet appeared on the right-hand screen.
Nicholas adjusted his glasses and peered at it. Cleared his throat and read it out loud. ‘“Shut your mouth you upper-class English tit.” Three Exclamation marks. “You can spout your plumby voiced treason all you like, but you know bugger all about it. Sod off and die.” Hashtag, “IndeRef F.T.W.”’
How lovely.
A smile pulled at his cheeks as his two fingers rattled across the keyboard.
‘While I would love to debate constitutional legislation with you, I fear you lack the requisite number of brain cells to appreciate the nuance. And it’s “plummy-voiced” not “plumby”. Hashtag, not enough brain cells. Hashtag, learn to spell. Hashtag, independence from reality … Send.’ A click of the mouse and it was winging its way back to whichever Alt-Nat troglodyte was hiding behind the username ‘@WEALL8THEENGLISH’.
Well, it was important to enjoy the little pleasures life presented from time to time.
Now then, where were we? Ah yes: Referendum Dementia.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Now, what we need, is something—
A small bark crackled out in the hallway, and Stalin hobbled through the study door. Wheezing and whining. Fading brown spots. Legs stiff with arthritis. A clockwork Jack Russell that was slowly winding down.
‘I know, I know. Just let me finish this bit, Stalin.’
Stalin hobbled closer and scratched a paw at Nicholas’s leg, staring up at him with those rheumy eyes. Manipulative little sod that he was.
‘All right, all right.’ Nicholas levered himself out of his chair, stuck one hand in the small of his back as his spine straightened – vertebrae making sounds like crunching gravel. ‘Urgh …’
Stalin wagged his ridiculous little tail, turned, and lumbered off.
‘Nag, nag, nag …’ Nicholas limped after him.
Should probably do something about cleaning the hall. All those bookshelves, crammed with dusty volumes. Thick lines of dark-grey fur on top of the picture frames.
He reached out a hand and ran his fingers along the one of Abigail, feeling the dip where the wood had worn away over the years. Past the stairs. Following Stalin’s white bum in the gloom.
‘Honestly, between your rotten old bladder and mine, it’s amazing I get any work done at all …’
Dark in the kitchen, but at least it hid the dirty dishes, pots, and pans, leaving nothing but vague shapes in their place. More piles of books and newspapers. The lonely remains of a microwave meal-for-one on the kitchen table.
Abigail wouldn’t be pleased at all.
Stalin scrabbled at the kitchen door.
‘I’m doing it! Stop nagging.’ Nicholas turned the key and opened the door, letting Stalin hurple out into the gloom. ‘And don’t be long!’
He clicked on the outside light and a pale orange glow oozed from the plastic fitting. Bloody energy-efficient light bulbs. What was the point of saving the planet if you broke your neck waiting for the damn things to come on?
Wind battered through the trees, making them judder against a vermilion sky, their tips tinged with red and gold as the sun said its final farewell to the land of men. Leaving nothing but the pathetic outside light to illuminate the long weedy grass, thick with dock, nettles, and thistles. The hen run, sagging and rotten in its wire cage.
Pffff … Cheery.
Maybe a glass of wine or three would lighten the mood?
Stalin clockworked his way across the rectangle of pale orange light, growling – hackles up as he disappeared into the undergrowth, heading for the woods.
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Stupid animal.
Nicholas stepped outside, slippers scuffing through the wind-whipped grass. ‘Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin, you get your smelly old rear end back here this instant!’
Which, of course, he didn’t. Because when did a Jack Russell ever do what it’s told?
‘STALIN! COME ON, YOU LITTLE SOD, DADDY’S GOT WORK TO DO!’
Still no sign of him.
‘Should’ve got a cat.’ Nicholas sagged, sighed, then zipped his hoodie up. Reached in through the open kitchen door to grab the torch hanging there and his walking stick.
Dog was a bloody menace.
The torch beam played across the windy grass, across the waving spears of thistle, across the boiling mass of nettles, towards the woods.
Deep breath. ‘STAAAAAAAAAAAA-LIN!’
Wind tugged at his hood, pattering it against his bald spot.
‘Bloody dog.’ He cleared a path into the woods with his walking stick, swinging it like a machete, following the torch beam towards the trees. Their trunks and branches shone like ancient bones in the darkness.
‘STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-LIN!’ He dropped his voice to a disgruntled mutter. ‘Should’ve buried you when we buried Abigail, you horrible stinky little monster.’
Another breath: ‘STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-LIN!’
A crack sounded somewhere deeper in the woods and Nicholas froze …
‘If you don’t get your rear over here right now, young man, I’m going inside and you can spend the rest of the night shivering in the dark. Is that what you want? Is it?’
He brought the torch round, sweeping across the skeleton branches and bone trunks.
A pair of eyes glittered back at him – too far away to make out anything but their reflected glow.
He stayed where he was. ‘Stalin? Stalin, that you?’
No answering bark. No response at all. Whatever it was just stayed there, staring at him from the darkness.
‘Hmph.’ Nicholas pulled his chin up. ‘Well, what are you then: a fox or a badger?’
And that’s when he feels it. A … presence. There’s someone behind him!
The smoky tang of whisky catches in his nostrils as they step in close, their breath warm against his cheek.
Oh God …
His mouth dries, pulse stabbing its way through his throat.
There’s a papery rustling sound. Then a cold metallic one as a ghost-white arm appears from behind Nicholas, painfully bright in the torch’s glow. The arm holds an axe, the blade chipped and brown with rust.
‘A fox or a badger?’ A small laugh. ‘Oh, I’m something much, much worse …’
— and then there was screaming —
2
‘Urgh … Look at this place: so bucolic it’s sickening.’
Una pulled her Fiat onto the gravel driveway and grimaced out through the windscreen.
A crumbling farmhouse with a small wood behind it, a bunch of hedges and bushes and flowers and trees and things. Nothing for miles and miles but hills and fields and sheep and trees and whatever the hell that was swooping about through the blue sky. Like bats, only in the daytime. Daybats.
Off to the side, a bunch of outbuildings and barns and the like were in various stages of being done up – one of them caught in a web of scaffolding, the slates stripped off the roof and replaced by blue papery stuff.
Urgh.
Joe’s voice boomed out of her car’s speakers, ‘So is he there?’
She killed the engine, grabbed her phone from its cradle, and climbed out into the … Oh dear Lord, it was like climbing into an oven. One filled with the contented sound of stupid bumblebees staggering their way through the baking air en route to extinction. Barely out of the car thirty seconds and already her nice floaty paisley shirt was clinging to her back.
‘Hello, Una? Helllllo?’
‘Hold on.’ She dipped back into the car for her Frappuccino and sunglasses, pinning the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could plip the locks. Stuck her shades on.
‘So, is the old bugger there or not?’
‘Well I don’t know, do I?’ The gravel scrunched beneath her feet as she marched for the front door. ‘With any luck he’ll be dead in a cupboard with a scarf around his neck, an orange in his mouth, and his cock in his hand.’
‘Oh thank you very much for that image. I’m eating a banana!’
Una mashed her thumb against the bell and deep inside the house something went off like a distant Big Ben. ‘Oh come on, he’s a stranglewank waiting to happen.’
No answer.
‘Going to have nightmares, now.’
Another go.
Una checked her watch. Nearly ten already. ‘For goodness’ sake.’ Because it wasn’t like she had a dozen faculty meetings to get through today, was it?
She tried the handle: locked.
Then Una turned and looked across the drive to a manky old Volvo estate painted a shade of used-nappy brown. ‘Professor Stranglewank’s car’s still here.’
So he couldn’t have gone far.
She thumped the palm of her hand against the front door, making it rattle. ‘NICHOLAS, ARE YOU IN THERE?’ Pause. ‘COME ON: IT’S TOO HOT OUT HERE FOR DICKING ABOUT!’ A bead of sweat tickled its way down her ribs.
‘If it is a stranglewank, fiver says he’s wearing women’s underwear.’
‘Hold on I’ll try round the back.’
She picked her way past the bin
s and through a patch of grass landmined with small grey jobbies. Around the corner the garden opened up. Well, if you could call it that. The whole thing was a sea of weeds. Oceans of them. Some high as your hip. A strange tiny shed looking about ready to collapse inside a chicken-wire prison. Place was a disgrace.
She took a sip of creamy cold coffee, then pinned the phone with her shoulder again and hammered her fist against the back door.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Joe sighed in her ear. ‘Do you think they’ll let me have his parking space?’
‘In your dreams.’ Another three booming knocks.
Still no answer.
Well, can’t say she didn’t try.
‘God, can you imagine the press release?’
A grin. ‘Aberdeen University is delighted to announce the passing of its least favourite professor, due to sexual misadventure.’
‘He died as he lived, being a wanker.’
OK, one last try: Una turned the handle … and the door swung open.
She stepped over the threshold into a manky kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink and stacked up on the work surfaces. Piles and piles of dusty books. A half-empty bottle of white wine sitting out on the filthy kitchen table, bathed in sunlight. The stale smell of hot pennies and mouldy food.
No doubt about it, the man lived like a pig.
‘Nicholas?’
She stood there, head cocked, listening.
A faint whining came from the other side of the door through to the rest of the house, accompanied by the scrabble of paws. Urgh … That revolting little dog of his, Satan, or whatever it was. The one responsible for all those landmines.
‘NICHOLAS? IT’S DOCTOR LONGMIRE! NICHOLAS?’
‘Speaking of eulogies, it’s Margaret’s retirement bash on Thursday. You want to give a speech?’
‘Do I jobbies, like.’
She walked towards the scrabbling door … Then stopped. Stared down at the kitchen table with its lonely bottle of Chardonnay, paired with a single, untouched glass. From the doorway, the table had looked filthy, maybe spattered with mud, but from here, closer, it definitely wasn’t mud. It was blood. Lots, and lots of blood.
On the other side of the door, Satan whined.
All That's Dead Page 1